Wreck Me
by in48frames
Summary: Luke and Gail do not have a "thing," but they do have a thing that shares some characteristics with a "thing."


**A/N: **_Everything has happened as it did in canon - except Holly does not exist. This change was purely for convenience; Holly is super great.  
_

* * *

Luke gets the call just as his shift ends: Swarek is in critical but stable condition. Andy is by his side. Of course she is.

To avoid the rush and work out the tension in his shoulders, he goes straight to the gym (in his suit pants and dress shirt—no wait, he's wearing jeans and a hoodie like any self-respecting homicide detective) to beat the shit out of the punching bag. He swings, ducks, pivots, until his shirt is sticking to him and his blood is rushing. As he walks to the locker room he feels a bit more mellow, a bit less infuriated by every stupid thing that happened today. The hot shower helps, too.

The room is deserted as he stands in front of his open locker, towel tied around his waist and hair slicked back. He can hear the echoing sounds of the station around him, which explains how when he slams his locker shut and turns around, Gail is standing behind him.

"Fuck!" he says, then almost smirks. "It's not that easy to sneak up on me, Peck. I'm almost impressed."

In her black jeans and combat boots, Gail leans against the wall of lockers, arms crossed over her chest. "Homicide."

"Not your intent, then?" He grips the top of the towel and sits down on the bench, weary with the day and waiting for her to state her purpose.

Gail steps forward until their knees almost touch and tilts his chin up with one hand. The soft tone of her voice doesn't match her words as she says, "You are turning into a real bastard. Could try smiling once in a while."

He jerks his chin out of her hand and says, "What'd you expect?," standing again with his hands on the towel. "Now, if you don't mind…?"

She looks at him like she gets the joke and is only mildly bemused. Backing away, she says, "Oh, I do mind, Homicide." She turns, ponytail swinging, and walks off down the corridor. "I mind!"

He listens to her footsteps fade and frowns. He's been frowning so much lately his face actually hurts at the end of the day. At least he has the strongest frowning muscles of anyone he knows—that's an accomplishment, right?

It's not that he was happier at fifteen—well, he did have Andy for a while. There was that family vibe he always felt but was never really a part of. But bouncing around now, one division to another, whoever needs him most—it's like he has no roots. No time to establish connections. Then again, no willingness to establish connections. He doesn't think about it, he doesn't miss it. He works as hard as he can and then he falls into bed at the end of the day/night without a thought.

Still, when he gets behind the wheel now, he picks up his phone and stares at the screen. There's a battle in his gut between maintaining his armour and knowing that inside that armour is going to be turmoil tonight. He hasn't been allowing himself distractions—couldn't risk it. Was it worth it?

A text comes in. Gail Peck: message blank.

_Fuck it_, he thinks, and texts back his current address. It's a pigsty but Gail never was fastidious about that; about _him_. She's come and gone through every stage of beard growth, from legitimately-almost-homeless to shit-I-have-to-be-in-court-tomorrow. He hasn't seen her—"seen" her—since Nick came back this last time. Didn't bother him—they didn't have anything going on really—but he's felt the tension building.

Maybe he should have texted her after this Andy-Nick mess went down, but maybe that would have been stupid. Either way, she's sitting on his front steps as he pulls in, and she grins wickedly into the turning headlights.

He climbs out of the front seat and walks toward her, stuffing his hands into the front pockets of his hoodie. At the bottom of the steps he stops and nods at her. "Peck."

"Don't call me that," she says warningly, standing up and turning to the steps.

Luke skips a step and wraps his arm around her neck, saying, "Sorry. Blondie," and feels the ball of tension in his gut uncurl just slightly as she jabs him in the side with her elbow.

There's a strange kind of giddiness that overtakes him as he lets them into the house and starts flipping light switches. It's the adrenaline, he knows, and he offers Gail a drink before downing one himself to take the edge off. He braces his hands on the edge of the kitchen counter and Gail sidles up beside him, insinuates herself between the counter and his legs.

She looks up at him steadfastly. "Simple, right?"

He breathes out and feels some more tension go with it. "Yeah," he says, as his gaze drops to her mouth. "Simple."

Pushing up on her toes, Gail wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him. He's clean-shaven—relatively, which means not at all—but Gail doesn't care. Even when he feels his stubble burning her skin, she moans into him and reaches for the hem of his shirt. Her fingertips dancing across his abs tell him that it's been too long, he's been waiting too long.

Their clothes are so easily discarded and Luke thanks whoever—whatever—that he had a condom in his wallet because they are not moving to the bedroom. He braces one arm behind Gail's back, keeping the counter from pressing into her delicate flesh, and she hops up, wrapping her legs around his waist as he enters her there in the kitchen. She nibbles at his neck—nips—bites—sucks—and he dips his head, panting harshly against her shoulder.

Gail uses her arms behind his neck to pull herself up, pressing him as deep into her as is physically possible, and Luke groans with the effort of holding himself back. Of course she knows that sound—she can read him so easily he wonders sometimes why he tries—and she moves her mouth to his ear, exhaling hot and moist before saying, "Come on then, Homicide."

He groans again and lets go, the release feeling like it scrapes out the inside of his skin and leaves him an empty shell; bracing his weight on the counter again, Gail's face in the curve of his neck. She keeps suckling gently, moving gradually to avoid leaving a mark. Occasionally she nips, and by the third bite he feels steady enough to straighten, catching her mouth with his. His free hand goes to the back of her head, holding her still so he can crush their lips together.

At the same time, he turns, leaving the counter behind, letting Gail hitch herself up higher so he can support her with one arm. He knows the path to the bed by heart, has run it enough times in the middle of the night, but he keeps his eyes open to navigate. It's not graceful, but they make it in one piece, and he drops Gail onto her back on the bed.

For a moment he stands there, taking her in. She is stunningly beautiful, every inch of her threatening to take his breath away—but he can't say that.

"Tired, detective?" she asks, up on her elbows, looking as debauched as anything. Her hair is mussed, her lips are swollen, and she doesn't even bother closing her legs.

In answer, Luke leans forward and hooks a hand behind either knee, pulling her to the edge of the bed. He squats between her legs. Her breath hitches, but she stays on her elbows until he looks up with the question in his eyes, the one they're past the point of articulating—and she nods, quickly. He smiles just a little and Gail lets herself fall back on the sheets, spreading her arms out to either side.

He makes her come twice, just for good measure, and then he murmurs, "I just need a minute," and falls asleep.

The first thing he notices when he wakes up is that he has an erection. The second is that Gail is across the room in the simple wooden armchair he keeps next to the closet. She's wearing one of his t-shirts, bare legs folded in front of her, scribbling in a notebook.

"Hey," Luke says, voice rough. She tilts her head to indicate she heard him but does not look up. "I have something for you."

She rolls her eyes then, and shuts her notebook. "Now what on earth could you possibly have for me in that bed with you?" she asks dryly, but she gets up and crosses the room. Luke holds up the sheet with a sneaky smile, and Gail stops and stares him in the face, deadpan. He starts to lose the smile, thinking he needs to change tacks, but without changing her expression Gail climbs onto the bed and onto him.

She doesn't make a sound as she slides him into her, but she closes her eyes and holds her breath. Luke makes an appreciative noise and then squirms a little, just to get a reaction out of her. She gasps, but keeps her eyes shut as she rides him. This time, he manages to let her come first, and his own orgasm is more intense for the waiting.

Then he's really wrung out, and Gail lies still on the bed, eyes half-closed, drugged out on endorphins. He watches her for a moment as his eyes droop, the lamp beside the bed giving her blonde hair a halo. _You look like an angel, but you act like the devil_, he thinks, and then he mumbles it out loud.

Gail's eyes pop open and she turns to him, "What?" but he's already asleep.

That night Luke dreams of a tiny blond cherub, one hand in his and one hand in Gail's. He can see himself, clean-shaven (for real this time) and dressed like a decent human being. The little child is just learning to walk, step-stumbling along between them, and Luke has never loved anything as much as he loves that small being.

In the morning he'll be pissed, because he doesn't have those feelings for Gail; really he doesn't. He's attracted to her and they mesh physically so damn well, but he has no illusions of them ever dating or, god forbid, producing offspring. But he can't forget that feeling of love, especially with his background being what it was. He's getting old; if he had a biological clock, it would be ticking. But his life has spiraled away from him. He has to do something to get back on track; he can't carry on this way.

As for Gail, she slips away as soon as she's sure he's asleep. "The Devil" is far from the worst thing she's been called, but it still stings. Not enough to keep her from sleeping with him again, because damn, he is good at what he does. She might ignore his texts for a few days; if he sends any. It just makes her feel, again, like there's something about her that wards off the possibility of a real relationship. She takes nice boys, chews them up and spits them out—and the not-so-nice boys see her as nothing more than a night's pleasure. There has to be more out there for her.

This miserable in-between can't last forever.


End file.
